


Settle Down With Me (and I'll be your safety)

by bookworm1805



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8x14, Angst, Episode Related, Fluff, M/M, Porn, Schmoop, Wincest - Freeform, really really schmoopy sappy sex, trial and error
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm1805/pseuds/bookworm1805
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 8x14: And then Sam is there, filling up all the cracks and fissures in his being with warmth and love and Dean feels hands stroking over his body, words spoken into his flesh that he doesn't understand until he does. “It’s okay Dean” Sam says into his shoulder, “you’re not worthless” into his neck, “not a grunt” against his forehead, “beautiful” against a falling tear, “genius” as he nuzzles his nose, “love you” into his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settle Down With Me (and I'll be your safety)

**Author's Note:**

> Un-betaed, so I apologize for any and all typos. I just wrote it last night in a fit of wincest emotions, so clearly I wasn't in my right mind. Takes place immediately after episode 8x14, spoilers for that episode. Really, this is disgustingly schmoopy. Fair warning.

That night after the hellhound fiasco when they arrive back at home base – and frankly Dean is _still_ having trouble actually believing they have any kind of a home now, that he can even _think_ the word and have it mean something other than four wheels and a slew of no-star motels – he begs off early, says he’s exhausted and that the bed at the ranch screwed up his back. He doesn’t wait for Sam to acknowledge that for the lie it is, doesn’t look him in the eye and doesn’t wait for a reply.

Half an hour later after he’s reacquainted himself with his room and flipped through his vinyl, he’s lying face up in bed trying not to think about Sa – about anything. He just wants to sleep. In his home, in his bed, in his room. He’s earned that much.

Something in his mind cackles. _Oh, please. You, Dean? You don’t deserve any of this. Not when your little brother is sacrificing himself again for you_.

Nuh-uh, not tonight. Tonight he wants to sleep.

 _You’re just a grunt_ , it continues.

Sleep. He’s just going to sleep.

_Sammy has so much more to live for, but he’s stuck defending **you**_

No—

_He doesn’t want to be here_

Shut up, just—

_You dragged him back into this_

No, c’mon enough—

_And now he has to make the sacrifice play for you, because you weren’t strong enough_

That’s not true, Sammy said it himself, he doesn’t want to sacrifice himself, he wants to live, he wants to—

 _He wants to live so he can get away from you,_ it hisses, _He wants to go back to Amelia and have kids and a dog and everything you can never offer him_.

I could give him that, Dean thinks, we have a home now, we have a kitchen and –

 _You’re his brother, Dean_ , and Dean hasn’t had doubts about this for a long time, he got over the incest thing years ago but that old fear is back now in the form of Amelia Richardson, the perfect little wife that Sam could be so much happier with than with Dean, his fucked up older brother, and it would be so easy, he wouldn’t have to hide with her –

_But it won’t matter, because Sam is going to die and you know it_

Things could be different this time, Dean thinks, we could do it right –

_Sammy is going to die_

Stop it, you don’t know that

_And it’s all for you_

No

_You worthless_

Please no

_Piece of_

No no no

_Shit._

Dean can’t breathe.

He’s curled up on his side, struggling for air. He’s given up the fight against the voice in his head because it’s always right, always has been. It’s the voice Dean met in his dream years ago, the one who called him “daddy’s blunt little instrument” and said he deserved to go to hell. It’s the voice that told him to slice into that first soul on Alistair’s rack, it’s the one who told him it was _his_ fault Sam took the dive into Lucifer’s cage because he broke the first seal. It’s the voice that whispered “dead inside” every day during that year with Lisa, told him it was his fault for not saving Cas in purgatory, cooked up that phony memory, and it’s the voice that tells him every day now he should just die and be done with it.

_Sammy’s going to die because you couldn’t kill one little hellhound, and then you’ll be all alone again, which is better than you deserve. He should live, not you._

It’s the truth and Dean feels it in his bones, no matter what Sam said earlier that night.

He sinks into himself deeper, curls his hands around his biceps and tries to breathe. It’s hard sometimes, sleeping in a different room than Sam now. It’s instinct every time Dean wakes up or falls asleep to look over at Sam, make sure he’s alive and still there, hasn’t died or-or left again. There have been nights they’ve slept together in the old bunker, picking Sam or Dean’s room for the night, but just as sometimes they’d sleep in separate motel beds when they needed space, sometimes they stay in their separate rooms. Dean has a feeling after the way he ditched Sam that tonight’s going to be one of those separated nights, which sucks because as loathe as he is to admit it he doesn’t want to be alone with the voice in his head right now. Doesn’t ever.

Sam appears in the doorway, like a mirage Dean summoned with a thought. “S’mmy?” he asks in a voice choked up with held back tears. Sam’s standing there, tall and compassionate and every bit the most amazing person Dean’s ever known and he feels his heart clench up because _he’s going to die_ , and for what? For _Dean_ , to save the world, and he’s not worth it, not worth it at all, _Dean_ should do it because he has nothing else to offer the world , but Sam—

“Dean,” his brother says, and there’s a hand on his shoulder nudging him onto his back and Dean closes his eyes, doesn’t want to look at Sam when he’s like this. He knows he can’t hide from his brother but if he just doesn’t have to _see_ him-

“Dean,” Sam says again, and he opens his eyes. Sam’s crouched over him, hands rubbing soothing circles into his arms where he’s holding him and he brings his forehead down to touch Dean’s. “ _Dean,_ ” he repeats, like a mantra and a prayer. Sometimes when they’re making love – and yes sometimes it’s making love and sometimes it’s fucking, but Dean has always enjoyed the former more than the latter and he has a feeling Sam knows it too– Sam’s voice has this reverent tone as he fucks Dean slowly, praising him and worshiping him like he’s _worth_ something, and Dean can tell already that’s where tonight is headed.

“Sammy,” he says, trying to stave off the inevitable because he’s not sure he can handle that tonight. It’s always hard to hear, but tonight of all nights… He knows he doesn’t deserve it. He puts his hands on Sam’s chest to push him away, but Sam’s been stronger than him for a while now and Dean isn’t trying that hard anyway. His little brother easily encircles his wrists and gently moves his arms back to the bed, thumbs idly rubbing the delicate bones there.

“I know what you’re thinking, Dean,” Sam says into the space between their mouths, slotting their noses together and rubbing back and forth. “I know you think this is a repeat of everything we’ve already been through, but it’s _not_ ,” and his voice is so sincere Dean thinks Sam actually believes what he’s saying, poor sonuvabitch.

Sam lowers himself ontop of Dean, slots himself in and nudges Dean’s bowed legs open wider to allow him. “It’s not, Dean. I want to live, I want _us_ to live, together,” and when he says it like that Dean takes it the wrong way, thinks that maybe Sam means they have a future _together_ after all this is over, no Amelia and no monsters, just them together and Dean would cook for them and they’d have a giant king-sized bed and fine, a dog, if Sam’s gonna be such a bitch about it, and –

 _Worthless_ , the voice says, and Dean shuts his eyes against the fantasy he’s created and Sam’s bright eyes above him. Dean doesn’t get a happy ending. That’s just the way it is.

A hand strokes his face, finger running along the arch of his cheekbone and the curve of his mouth. Lips press against a closed eyelid. “We have a future, Dean,” words whispered into his skin. “You and me, and all our friends. Garth, Cas, Charlie…they care about you, Dean. I care about you.” The hand still holding Dean’s wrist moves up to lace their fingers together. “I love you,” Sam says, and the words flow over him like honey and he’s shaking and the hand holding Sam’s trembles but the boy above him just holds on tighter. His other hand reaches up to fist itself in Sam’s shirt and his eyes are still shut because he can’t look at his brother, can’t face him, not when he feels so raw and torn open, not in the face of such undeserved adoration.

“Look at me,” Sam says, and Dean can’t. The hand still tracing his mouth moves to the bolt of his jaw, tilts his face upward. “Hey,” he prods. “Look at me.”

Dean opens his eyes.

Sam’s face is illuminated by the moon outside and the light that’s still on in the hallway. His eyes are shining and his eyebrows are drawn together in what Dean knows is his _I-really-mean-what-I’m-about-t-say_ face. “You’re not a grunt, Dean,” he says in an echo of his words earlier that night. “You’re a genius.”

Dean almost closes his eyes again, but the look on Sam’s face stops him. “I know it’s hard to hear this because you always get so down on yourself, but it’s the truth Dean.” Sam pulls back. “I just wish you could see it.”

And Sam’s right, Dean _can’t_ hear this. So he goes for another tactic and pulls at Sam’s t-shirt. “Sammy c’mon,” he says. But Sam’s having none of it, and once again gently moves his arm back to the bed. He leans back down over Dean.

“No,” he whispers into Dean’s neck, softly biting the skin. “No, we’re doing this on my terms tonight.”

And with those words Sam finally, _finally_ brings his lips to Dean’s and kisses him, slowly, sensually, licking deep into his mouth and gently forcing his jaw open wider with his hand. Dean wraps his hands into Sam’s hair, kneads at his scalp and tries to bring him closer, god please closer. Their hips align and Sam slowly rocks up into him, not so much as to get them too excited, but enough that Dean is flustered and aching and _pulling_ at the hair between his fingers.

“Amazing,” Sam says between kisses. “Beautiful” and “genius” and “my hero” join the mix and Dean swallows the words so he doesn’t have to hear them, keeps his eyes closed so he doesn’t have to see in Sam’s eyes how much he means them.

After endless minutes of the slow mixing of tongues and lips and sweat, Sam’s hands move to Dean’s waist and the sliver of exposed skin. “Want to see you,” Sam says, and slowly pulls his shirt off. “Gorgeous,” he mutters as he brings his hands to Dean’s chest and smooths his fingers over his nipples. Dean keens and arches up, and fuck he doesn’t know what to do, Sam just needs to shut up, _shut up—_

“Sammy,” he says, and yanks Sam’s neck back down and crashes their lips together, but Sam turns the violence into reverence and doesn’t react to Dean’s harsh tug on his lower lip, just licks further into his mouth and presses his warm hands all over Dean’s exposed flesh before Dean gives up and gives in to the slow worshipful torture and his brother’s fingers twisting his nipples.

Sam moves downward, sucking kisses into Dean’s neck and clavicle and pectorals before bringing his tongue in a slow swirl around his left nipple, teasing it then bringing it into his mouth to gently suckle. Dean is moaning, can’t breathe, can’t take it, and when he looks down at Sam he sees his brother looking back with affectionate, heated eyes, and Dean feels himself start to break. Everything he’s feeling starts to leak out of him, every doubt and fear and self-loathing thought he’s ever had rising to the surface in a crashing wave and the force of it just might kill Dean and it’s ripping him apart, tearing him into something else—

— _a new animal—_

—tears spring to his eyes and his throat hurts and Dean thinks he’s sobbing, thinks he’s finally had enough—

And then Sam is there, filling up all the cracks and fissures in his being with warmth and love and Dean feels hands stroking over his body, words spoken into his flesh that he doesn’t understand until he does, and he hears his baby brothering whispering “shh it’s okay” and “I’m here, I’m here Dean I’m not going anywhere, I’m not gonna leave you” and it’s so like what Dean said to Sam before he took the swan dive that Dean feels more tears welling up and he reaches out blindly for an anchor in the storm, and he finds Sam just like he always has. “It’s okay Dean” Sam says into his shoulder, “you’re not worthless” into his neck, “not a grunt” against his forehead, “beautiful” against a falling tear, “genius” as he nuzzles his nose, “love you” into his mouth.

Then hands are peeling him from the rest of his clothes, unzipping his pants and tugging them off, carefully removing each sock, slipping him out of his underwear. The words haven’t stopped, they’re just whispered into different places now, the cap of his knee, the curve of his calf, the inside of his thigh, the arch of his foot. “Beautiful,” Sammy says over and over, like he knows how much it means to Dean, that one word no one else has ever attributed to him before. People call him pretty all the time, sure, older men who look at his mouth and think one thing, but Dean stopped turning tricks years ago, ever since Sam found out and _they_ started, so he just brushes those guys off now and tries not to think about it. But _Sam_ , Sam calls him beautiful like he means it, like Dean’s not just a pretty thing for fucking or the worthless shit he’s convinced himself he is in his head.

Sam climbs back on top of him and he’s naked too, and when their skin connects Dean feels like crying again because this is right in all the ways he doesn’t deserve. “Stop it,” Sam says, pressing his thumbs against his cheeks and wiping away the tracks of tears. “You deserve this, Dean. You deserve to live. And I’m gonna take you there,” he promises. “Believe in me, Dean.”

Dean wraps his arms around Sam and pulls him tight because if there’s one thing he believes in, in this entire godless world of angels and devils and monsters, it’s his brother.

“I do, Sammy,” he says into his brother’s mouth. Flesh meets flesh as Sam rocks against him, and their cocks slide together and smear precum on their bellies. “I d-do,” he gasps. “I do, I do, I do” becomes a chant as Sam continues the rollicking rhythm, catches his jaw as he kisses his older brother and eats up the words, and Dean fists his hands in Sam’s hair and _wants_.

And when Sam presses a finger inside Dean, it’s to Dean’s words of “love you Sammy, love you love you please don’t leave me” and Sam answers with kisses into Dean’s thigh “I won’t, never again”. One finger becomes two, then three, and Dean is crying again because he didn’t think he could _feel_ so much, the bad inside him at war with the _good_ his brother lavishes all over him and presses with sweet words into his skin. “Sammy,” he pleads, and then Sam slides home and everything slots into place like it always does, because this is how it should be.

“You have a future, Dean,” Sam says as he pushes into his brother carefully. “We have a future, you and me.” He thumbs away more tears and kisses the spots where his fingers leave his skin. “I mean look at us,” he adds as he waits for Dean to adjust to fit him. “We’re in _your room_. You have a room, D.”

And it’s that, that childhood nickname from when they were little that brings it home for Dean, brings everything into glaring focus. “I want this,” he gasps out before he loses his nerve, squirming with his brother’s length inside him. “I want you and me, together, always have.”

Sam kisses him and starts to move, muttering “yeah Dean, yeah” as he brings himself out and pushes back in. Dean arches his back for a better angle and Sam grips his hips and tilts them upwards, sets up a slow, steady rhythm and he’s so fucking _deep_ into Dean reaching parts he didn’t realize he had, emotionally and physically, and Dean never feels more at home or more _right_ than he does in times like this, with his little brother making soft, worshipful love to him. He craves it, _needs_ it, showers himself in the love his brother shows him that he could never understand or give to himself.

“Wanna have a house,” he finds himself babbling, “wanna have a life after hunting, don’t want you to leave Sammy, want you to stay, want us to be together, _fuck Sammy_ , oh god, fuck, please don’t—don’t leave, _fuck_ —” and he never meant to say any of this out loud,  not ever, but before he can even think about pulling away Sam fucks into him even deeper, breathing harshly into his mouth and bringing his hands up to cup Dean’s face.

“Dean, _Dean_ , look at me,” Sam begs hoarsely. “I want that too,” he says and Dean’s body _convulses_. “The whole w-white-picket fence thing never worked for either of us because we weren’t _together_ , Dean, and we—we know that now.” Sam’s breath is stuttering and his hair is falling into Dean’s face, and sweat drips from his little brother’s nose onto Dean’s cheeks. He can’t believe the words he’s hearing, because if they’re true then—

“ _Sammy_ ,” he bites out and he feels like he’s soaring as Sam’s cock bumps against his prostate again and again, “Fuck,” he says, “we can even get a fucking dog—” and that does something to Sam because after hearing a strangled laugh the next thing Dean knows is he’s being pulled up, sitting on Sam’s lap, on his _dick_ and Sam is fucking into him desperately, grunting and whimpering and Dean brings his hands to his chest, strokes over his nipples and Sam moans, hips pumping erratically and then they’re panting into each other’s mouths more than kissing, and Sam continues his mantra of praise.

“God, love you so much D, we’re gonna do it, we’re gonna have fucking barbeques together and you can cook and wear a little apron—” Dean bites down on Sam’s lip and his brother chuckles, “Okay fine, we’ll talk about the apron later—” he stops talking for a second and grabs Dean’s dick, starts stroking it in tandem with the motion of his hips.

Dean feels so good, so _good_ like the bad was never there and he thinks that maybe it’ll stay gone this time, maybe he’ll start to see himself the way Sam sees him, and the thought of being free makes Dean collapse and rest his forehead against Sam’s shoulder, keening and moaning helplessly as Sam’s dick splits him open and his warm hands all over Dean’s body put him back together. “You make me feel good, Sammy,” he breathes like a dark secret into the hollow of his brother’s neck. “Like I _am_ good, and-and smart and worth somethin’.”

The hips fucking into him still, and Sam’s giant hand cups his face and tilts it upwards, and Sam looks fucking _lit up_ from the inside. “That’s ‘cos you are, D,” he says, practically beaming and Dean melts under that smile like he always has and arches up to kiss him, and their tongues meld together in sloppy heated bliss. Then gentle hands are laying him back on the bed and Sam is moving in him again, fucking deeper and more aggressively but the slew of words doesn’t stop, nor does Sam’s unwaveringly reverent gaze, and Dean can’t look away while his brother says he’s a genius and brilliant and _beautiful_ and _my hero since forever_ and _how does a great dane sound_ and one huge hand is still working Dean’s cock, slipping and sliding and rubbing over his leaking slit and finally he lets go, surrenders to everything and lets the sensation over whelm him. The intensity of his orgasm is unlike anything he’s ever felt, the words of love and praise sinking into him and settling somewhere deep inside, setting off a chain of fireworks inside his body that explode from his dick. He gasps for air and chokes out “ _Sammy_ ” before he’s lost in the euphoria, bathing in a feeling of pure goodness he’s never experienced before, and his toes tingle and his heart feels too light and too heavy at the same time so Dean holds onto his brother and hopes Sam will guide him through this.

When he comes back to himself, Sam is dropping kisses all over his face, breath ripped out of him in harsh gasps and voice still straining to speak as his hips stutter into Dean, “god so amazing, love you more than anything, you and me D, you and me, fucking  _genius_  I love you, fuck you feel so good, I love you, _Dean—_ ” and then his words cut off with a harsh cry and Dean feels Sam breaking from the inside, the familiar rush of warm semen filling him up and Dean feels  _whole_ , for the first time in maybe his entire life.

He pets his brother’s hair, tries to coax him through it like Sam did for him, so he kisses his forehead and tells him how brave he is, how selfless and gorgeous, how much he  _believes_  in him, that a great dane sounds good but Sam has to house train him, and he has a no-frills apron policy that is non-negotiable but he’s open to other suggestions. Sam laughs through his moans and collapses on Dean as he quakes with aftershocks. Dean keeps carding his fingers through Sam’s hair, something he’s done since they were kids when Sam decided to be a total girl and keep his hair long. Dean gave him hell for it of course, but the truth is he sort of loves it. Stroking Sam’s hair brings him a sense of peace and security. “I got you Sammy,” he says, and he can feel Sam’s lips curve up in a smile against his cheek.

“I know you do,” he answers, and gently slips out of Dean with the wet pop. Dean shifts his hips and tries to adjust to the emptiness, but Sam doesn’t leave time for that thought to fester before he’s scooped Dean up in his arms and maneuvered them into prime cuddling position. Sam’s nose nuzzles into the hair at Dean’s temple and he places and soft kiss against his skin. “I got you too.”

Dean doesn’t fight the feeling that sweeps over him now as his heart clenches with happiness— _actual happiness_. He just turns his back into the warmth of his brother, letting Sam be the big spoon tonight, and settles into the love Sam presses into him from all around, from every inch where their bodies meet. “We can do this, Dean,” his brother says quietly into the back of his neck, and Dean grabs Sam’s hand from his waist and kisses his palm. He twines their fingers together and rests them against his heart.

“Y’should just move into my room,” he mumbles before the thought can slip away and he loses consciousness. He’s so warm he’s drunk on it and he can feel himself drifting.

Sam chuckles against his neck and it tickles, or it would if hunters were susceptible to tickleish-ness, which Dean totally isn’t. “Okay. But I’m ordering that apron on ebay tomorrow,” he says, “and I’m putting up a bookshelf on my side.”

“Kay,” Dean thinks he says, and then for the first time in months he falls asleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
